“I’ll let her know you’ll be half an hour.”
“Thanks.”
Thirty minutes and one about-to-be-signed
contract later, Emily tucked her phone and tablet into her shoulder bag and
climbed the winding wooden staircase to the fourth floor and made her way down
the plush carpeted hall to the office at the far end. The top floor housed the
senior agents’ offices and looked as Emily imagined it had a century before
with its vaulted tin ceilings, ornate hanging light fixtures, and recessed
alcoves framed in dark, carved wood. Above the gleaming walnut wainscoting,
framed portraits of generations of Winfields adorned the pale green,
floral-patterned wallpaper. In the muted light, the eyes of the men and one
woman followed her. With each step, she felt as if she moved back in time, although
there was nothing outdated or antiquated about the woman she was about to see.
Like Emily, Henrietta Winfield simply appreciated history.
Vonnie Hall, a trim, flawlessly presented
woman in a red suit with thin ribbons of black along the collar and cuffs,
guarded the door to Henrietta Winfield’s inner sanctum with the ferocity of a
she-wolf and the smile of an angel. She greeted Emily with genuine pleasure.
“She’ll just be a minute. She’s finishing a phone call.”
“Sure,” Emily said. “How are you? Is Tom on
his way home yet?”
Vonnie’s smile blazed at the mention of her
husband, still deployed with the National Guard. “He’s in Germany, thank the
Lord. He ought to be home in about ten days.”
“I’m so glad.”
A light on Vonnie’s phone blinked and she
gestured toward the closed door behind her. “Go on in.”
“Thanks.” Emily shifted her shoulder bag a
little higher, skirted Vonnie’s desk, and stepped into Henrietta Winfield’s
domain. The room was twice the size of the library she’d just left but
resembled it with its filled-to-capacity bookshelves on two walls, the
comfortable leather sofa and chair in the seating area, and the big wooden
library table that served as a desk. The president of the Winfield Agency sat
behind it now in a dark brown leather swivel chair.
At five-four and a hundred and ten pounds,
Henrietta should have been dwarfed by the size of the table and the
expansiveness of the room, but she filled the space—any space—with a palpable
energy. When Emily had first met her seven years before, she’d been twenty-two
and fresh out of school, and had felt as if she’d walked into the path of a
hurricane. Despite being five inches taller and nearly forty years younger than
Henrietta—HW, as everyone called her in casual conversation—she still sometimes
had to run to keep up with her. Henrietta was energetic, trim, and formidable.
She was also Emily’s mentor, role model, and closest friend.
Henrietta, her shining black hair cut
casually short, without any gray and naturally so, nodded hello. As was always
the case, she wore a business suit, this one a gray pinstripe with a white
open-collared shirt and a plain gold necklace showing at the throat.
“Hi,” Emily said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it
sooner, but I just finished a call with a client.”
“That was the fantasy you were telling me
about the other night at dinner?”
Emily shook her head, although she shouldn’t
be surprised. HW’s memory was prodigious and enviable. “That’s the one.”
“Is the author signing?”
“She is.”
“Excellent. I agree with you—we’re going to
see a resurgence in high fantasy in the next year. Can you get this one
positioned with one of the brand divisions?”
“I think so.” Emily doubted Henrietta had
called her in to discuss a relatively straightforward contract, but she waited
patiently.
“Sit down. This will take a minute.”
Emily’s heart jumped. Something about the way
Henrietta was looking at her sent a chill down her spine. When she’d been a
young intern working directly for HW, she’d been the recipient of a few hard
stares, an occasional quiet but unforgettable admonishment, and a thousand more
words of encouragement. Henrietta Winfield was the best at what she did, and
she’d held the reins of her company in a firm grasp through economic and
industry upheavals that had decimated other agencies. If she was unhappy, Emily
couldn’t fathom what might be the cause. She sat, feeling the pulse beat in her
throat.
